Atrast nal Tunsha
by Morninglight
Summary: From the Diamondverse. Rated M for triggering content of mentioned suicide and implied euthanasia. All Wardens must face their Calling and so must Duncan and Brytta. But they will not go into the darkness unloved and unforgotten... Contains seriously AU and non-canon stuff; just my interpretation of certain things. Please read and review, thanks!


Note: Just another little one-shot, but this one is sad. In my canon, Duncan's in his mid-to-late forties during the Blight; this is set nearly two decades later. Possible triggering content: mentions of suicide and euthanasia; the Fields of Grey are also a non-canon creation of mine for a future story beyond _When in Antiva._

…

_The song was beautiful. Crystalline notes shimmered in the air like a waterfall of diamonds, calling with the promise of clarity and peace and purpose. An endless ripple of darkness seethed towards it, promising damnation and destruction. Not long now, surely…_

Duncan opened his eyes blearily and sat up with a groan, burying his face in his hands in denial. The nightmares had begun again. He could hear the song of the Old Gods, calling him (and the darkspawn hordes) to be tainted. It was time to die.

He looked down to the woman sleeping by his side in the low wide bed. Except that Brytta wasn't asleep; she was watching him with a terrible knowledge in her malachite-green eyes. She knew… But there was no fear in her gaze, only that terrible acceptance and understanding. His wife would not stop him from taking that long walk into the dark.

"How long do you have?" she asked softly, messy curls now more rusty than auburn with thick streaks of grey since the two decades of her conscription and Joining.

"One good thing about living in Orzammar, _maHábba_, is that the Deep Roads are a short walk away," Duncan said, managing a smile. "I shall wait a week or so after Endrin's Naming Day."

Brytta nodded. "Thank the Ancestors. It's his coming of age and we really don't want to wreck that by, you know, going to die on his big day."

It was then Duncan realised that the knowledge and acceptance in her eyes weren't just for him. Brytta too had been suffering the nightmares… but she hadn't breathed a word of it to anyone. "How long?" he asked, deep voice raw with mixed emotions.

"About a month. Been hoping to either die in a skirmish or survive until Endrin's birthday party." Brytta's mezzo-soprano, roughened by years of drinking and swearing and yelling, was matter-of-fact. "I'm glad, you know, to have seen him reach manhood."

"As am I," Duncan agreed. He rubbed his left wrist, swollen with arthritis; it would be good to be free of this aged body with its painful joints.

"First people we tell are Bhelen and Rica," his wife said practically as she got out of bed. "Second are the lunatics… what's left of them. Third are the Warden-Seconds. Fourth are the kids."

Duncan nodded, closing his eyes as tears trickled down his wrinkled, scar-seamed cheeks at the thought of friends dead and gone through Calling or misadventure. Sten had been first, vanishing in Kal Sharok five years after his Joining; Atrast Hjarta, lost in a darkspawn raid after Brytta was forced to give her mercy because of a broken leg and no healer present; Zevran, just this year past, choosing the Antivan suicide ritual known as _la hermosa muerte_, the beautiful death, and dying of a gentle poison in the arms of the woman he loved under the open sky; and Cailan and Morrigan, just six months ago, choosing to go together and leaving their child Orla in Orzammar with the Free Circle of Magi.

Brytta wrapped her muscular arms about him and gave a brief but strong hug. "We'll be seeing them soon," she promised gently.

"Indeed…" Duncan sighed and wiped at his face with a handkerchief. "I guess we have our own arrangements to make."

"Already made them," Brytta said cheerfully as she headed towards the bathing room. "Leske's sound enough to take over my patrols… and Alistair's come to stay until his own Calling. He's going to train up Jarran Harrowmount."

"You've got everything handled, don't you?" Duncan asked, amused in spite of himself.

"Well yeah. You only die once – or so I'm told – so you might as well do it properly," Brytta answered. "I damn well intend to enter those gates roaring drunk on Valenta Red and keep myself that way until we reach Bownammar. Then we can kill a dozen ogres and get eaten by dragon thralls or something."

"You sound like Oghren," Duncan observed, shaking his head. One minor blessing as he got old was that he kept his thick hair, even if it was white as snow these days.

"Hey, Oghren made a kickass Warden until that tainted bronto sat on him," Brytta pointed out before jumping into the pool. Duncan sighed and arose, limbs creaking, to join her.

For all of her cheer and bravado, Brytta broke down and wept into his shoulder after what was likely to be their last lovemaking. Duncan held her tightly, his own tears falling. Even though they'd been blessed beyond measure for Wardens, even the greatest of saints wanted just a little more time with their loved ones…

Finally they stopped crying and washed themselves. Death might be looming over them like a storm preparing to break, but today was the most important day in their nephew's life, and they weren't going to ruin it for them.

…

"Endrin…?"

The Crown Prince of Orzammar was trimming his beard, kept close to the jaw like his father's, when Orla entered his bedroom. The willowy human girl with her brandy-hued hair and slanted golden eyes had men of almost every race (and even the qunari looked twice at her) watching her wherever she went. But for some unknown reason she chose to spend most of her time with Endrin. Some claimed the mage wanted power, but Orla was a woman of strange and powerful gifts: temporal power meant nothing to her when she could speak into a man's head or see events happening far away. Endrin, trained to read people, knew that the curiously artless Orla cared for him deeply. They were both related to Blight Heroes, both children of royal lines… He was blessed to have her in his life.

He looked up and saw the resigned sadness in her eyes to match the concern in her voice. The last time she'd looked like that was when her parents underwent the Calling… and given she was coming to him, there could be only one or two people preparing for theirs. "They're going together," he replied simply.

Orla nodded. "Yeah… Your aunt's been having the nightmares for a month, your uncle's just started this morning." She sighed sorrowfully. "They're planning on not telling you today and will wait a few days before heading off to Bownammar."

Endrin sighed and set the silver scissors down, opening his arms for an embrace from the girl who had been his first lover. She stepped into the circle of his arms and knelt so they looked each other in the eye, gold meeting malachite, then rested their foreheads together as they hugged. "My firstborn will be Duncan if a boy, Brytta if a girl," he vowed quietly.

"The betrothal to Endra Dace has been confirmed?" Orla asked.

"Yeah… Three days ago. It's going to be announced at the feast." Endrin and Orla had an understanding; she said nothing about the noble-hunters and the pragmatic Dace girl he was to wed, and he said nothing about the brief affairs she had with human or elf. If only more people were that pragmatic…

"I suspected." Orla sighed. "I wish I were a dwarf, sometimes…"

"And I wish I were a human at times," Endrin replied with a shrug and sad smile. "But as Aunt Brytta says: 'Accept what you can't change, change that which is unacceptable, and pray to the Ancestors for the wisdom to know the bloody difference!"

Orla laughed quietly. "Remember the stuffed nug?"

Endrin turned his gaze to the silk-clad stuffed nug which still stood in the corner of his room, watching them with beady little eyes. "Yeah… I'm going to miss her. But I'm not going to tell her I know. I can't do that to her and Uncle Duncan."

"Of course not." Orla's eyes were distant. "My birth father's coming to find me. He doesn't approve of us, you know."

Endrin managed a smirk. "Mostly because he's still hung up on that stupid Chantry monogamy stuff. You'd think nearly twenty years in Antiva would have cured him of it."

Orla made a disgusted face. "I wish the Chantry was dead… But Dad said that it's really impolite to just blow things up without a good reason."

"Not all Andrastians are pains in the ass. Look at the Antivan lot: open-minded, relaxed and tolerant."

"True… Some Antivan Wardens are here. Well, Wardens from Antiva…" Orla tugged on her braid awkwardly. "I'd like to see Antiva one day. It sounds like an interesting place."

Endrin grinned wryly. "If your birth father's to be believed, it's Orzammar, only topside."

Orla laughed and he was glad to have distracted her from the imminent demise of his aunt and uncle. Endrin was going to miss them like a templar missed lyrium but he also knew that there was jack he could do about it. Brytta and Duncan's fate had been decided for them before his birth and both were accepting of the fact.

He only had a few moments to stop hugging Orla before her birth father showed up. Alistair Theirin had aged well for a Warden, only a few streaks of silver in his long braid and lines on his scarred, blindfolded face giving testament to the fact that he'd been a Warden for over twenty years. The human wore Warden-Commander plate armour forged from volcanic aurum like it was cloth; one of many reasons why Endrin didn't want to antagonise him.

"There you are," he said. It was times like these that Endrin wished he were taller than the guy who'd abandoned Orla for the first five years of her life because he had issues… Or could somehow get away with a good old nutcracker punch on the bastard.

It had been one of the first combat moves his aunt had taught him, even before he'd received his first dagger (also a gift from his aunt). The deshyrs had started hiring renegade mages and human mercenaries to kill the royal family because of Bhelen's reforms. Endrin had never known anything else other than assassination attempts, dirty backroom politics and constant vigilance… And things would get worse when he became King.

"I'd better go," Orla said to Endrin with a smile, blowing him a kiss as her birth father glowered. The dwarven Prince returned the gesture, winking as Alistair positively glared at him. Then the Theirin duo left, allowing Endrin to finish getting ready for the feast.

A soft whuff alerted him to the presence of his mabari Brytta; the hound, a squat, muscular creature with the reddish mottling of her dam Atrast Hjarta over the chocolate-brown of her sire Barkspawn, dragged over the drakeskin undervest he wore beneath his clothes. Endrin sighed and donned it over his beige surface-silk shirt, then put the quilted gold-embroidered brown doublet and dragonbone-plated leather jerkin over that. The only times he was ever free of armour was either in the bedroom, the bathroom or surrounded by a circle of guards three deep.

He wondered what it would be like to just be normal, to have no worries beyond the price of nug steaks and ale at Tapster's. To be able to marry a human if he wanted and screw what others thought; maybe even to travel to Antiva and other places for the hell of it.

No doubt his father knew Endrin had such longings, but the only people the Crown Prince had ever openly confessed it to were Aunt Brytta and Orla. Morrigan's daughter had sympathised and hugged him; his aunt had poured him a flagon of Valenta Red and simply said, "The Ancestors never give us a burden too heavy for the Stone to crack beneath our feet."

Then she had related a story passed from mother to son, father to daughter in the Brosca family line: those words had come from Gherlen the Blood-Risen, the first Paragon of casteless heritage… and father of a girl named Brosca. His son Gherlot had been adopted into the Daces after Gherlen's first wife had become Daken Dace's concubine, but Brosca had been the daughter of a noble-hunter and forgotten by the histories… but not by her descendants.

"You're half-Duster, Endrin," she'd explained, patting the packed earth floor of the house where the Broscas had once lived. The prince, just turned twelve, touched the floor and realised it was hard as Stone but for a fine film of loose dust. "But Gherlen was the Duster Paragon. He kept his head high, planted his feet on the Stone, and told the Teyrn of Highever's army to go fuck themselves when they blockaded the pass which now bears his name. Well, him and his mercenary company."

Endrin had giggled at the crudity. He was still young enough to be amused by the use of rude words and Aunt Brytta knew a lot of them in several different languages. Once he'd used the phrase _"kosma yara"_ until a Rivaini had overheard it and scolded him for using the foulest phrase in their language. Uncle Duncan only used it for times when really bad things were happening, like when an intelligent darkspawn emissary teamed with an exiled member of House Harrowmount…

"How come the Shapers don't know this?" Endrin had asked.

"Because Brosca was the daughter of a casteless woman. Remember, until your fifth year, caste was determined by that of your same-sex parent," Brytta reminded him. "That's why you're a Noble Caste."

"Huh. Is that why Dad changed the laws so Kalah and Natia could be Nobles like Anwer, Caridin and me?"

"In part. Remember, Grey Wardens are considered Noble Caste and that's why your Mom's a Noble now, so Kalah and Natia would've been Nobles anyways," Brytta said as she drank from her tankard.

"Huh." Endrin sipped from the kid-sized tankard she'd given him. "It's unfair. I want to be normal."

"Why? If me and Rica had been normal Dusters, a lot of people would be dead," Brytta said pragmatically. "Yeah, there's been moments of suckiness in our lives… But I wouldn't have met Duncan if I didn't work for Beraht and your Mom wouldn't have met your Dad. You need to look past the Dust to see the Stone beneath."

Endrin had never looked at it that way… But still, six years later, he wished he was normal.

The Crown Prince shook his head, belted on his longswords, and whistled for Brytta. He had a feast to attend and family to say goodbye to.

…

"It's time, isn't it?"

Rica knew her little sister like the back of her hand; seeing the shadows in her eyes and the flask of Valenta Red Brytta had taken to carrying over the past month confirmed what she'd suspected. Neither Brosca sister bothered with comforting lies, so the slayer of the archdemon simply nodded and hugged the Queen of Orzammar.

"I'll go a few days after Endrin's birthday," Brytta said once they'd separated. "No need to wreck the kid's party."

That innate sweetness, the basic decency which had led to Brytta sacrificing her innocence on the altar of Beraht's ambition to save her family and eventually becoming one of Orzammar's most beloved citizens, made Rica's heart ache. The thought of her sister and Duncan becoming anonymous corpses in the darkness of the Deep Roads beyond Bownammar was enough to break her heart… But Grey Wardens had to die or they'd become monsters in time.

She and Bhelen had planned for this day after speaking to the Black Griffin on her last trip to Orzammar; the assassin had mixed up a gentle poison and given it to them. "Put in the Valenta Red and they shall fall asleep in the darkness and awake within the Fields of Grey," she'd said quietly, lyrium-blue eyes glittering coldly in the ruddy light of a lava flow.

"Fields of Grey?" Rica had asked tentatively as she accepted the small green vial.

"It is where Grey Wardens go when we die, if we are truly Wardens above all else." That was all the elf-slim archer would say on the matter. Even the Shaperate hadn't been able to say much more than that some of the earliest Wardens had spoken of the place. Rica eventually figured that Brytta's strength would go to the Stone and her soul to these Fields.

So Brytta and Duncan would be accompanied by Denek and Vartag, who would bring back their bodies when they died to be entombed in a Paragon's monument. Neither Warden had sought recognition in life, but in death all Orzammar would pay tribute to the slayers of the archdemon.

Finally Rica stopped hugging her sister and managed a smile. "Could you _please_, for the love of the Ancestors, _not_ tell the nug and the noble-hunter story at the feast? I don't need Nerav Helmi having a heart attack."

Brytta sighed and nodded. "Fine. Spoilsport."

Rica smiled again, a genuine if sorrowful one. "I'm going to miss you, sis."

"And I you. Name the brattiest grandkid for me, will ya?"

Rica laughed. "Deal, sis."

It would be the last time they would speak alone and both sisters knew it. But nothing more needed to be said between them.

…

Bhelen ruffled greying sandy hair and tried not to weep as Duncan informed him of his forthcoming trip to the Deep Roads to die. Twenty years of laughter and tears had dwindled into less than a week… No more sly pranks on Brytta's part or quiet words of advice from Duncan, no more drinking sessions as they mocked the Noble Castes, no more family dinners or the King struggling to keep a straight face as his Warden in-laws made sarcastic observations on the political turmoil…

But Bhelen didn't insult Duncan with tears or wailing; instead he simply squeezed the human's forearms in heartfelt gratitude and thanked him. Tears nearly threatened when Duncan shook his head and said, "No, thank you."

Rica had told him of her plan to give Brytta and Duncan mercy and then retrieve their bodies for a proper burial; Bhelen approved it and thanked the Black Griffin for her input. The Antivan woman had simply shrugged dwarf-broad shoulders, at odds with her elf-slim body, and said, "They have earned it."

Enough of the older deshyrs had died that Bhelen was considering reopening the Assembly with the more progressive younger generations who had grown up under his rule. Denek Helmi had demanded that the lower Castes be given representation – and so they would be with seven deshyrs from each of the seven Castes of Orzammar. Bhelen's reforms had removed the same-sex parent birth restriction on the Castes: the higher ranked of the two parents passed on their birth-Caste to the children of either gender… Children with a particular aptitude for skills relating to a Caste could also be fostered, adopted or even married into a separate Caste… And if surfacers or Dusters could trace their ancestry back to a House within three generations, that House was responsible for them.

Bhelen's own children were born Noble Caste but Prince Endrin was fostered with House Tethras, a former Noble House turned Merchant Caste family, and so was considered Merchant Caste because of his trading skills. Kalah was looking to become Warrior Caste while Anwer and Caridin were Smith and Artisan Caste respectively… Natia, baby of the bunch, was still too young to show any strong aptitudes beyond being as big a smartass as her aunt Brytta.

But enough of the younger generations had grown up knowing and respecting the Grey Wardens to agree to grant Brytta and Duncan Paragon status on their deaths. Their House, so to speak, would be the Grey Wardens themselves. The First Warden, the High Constable and the Black Griffin were all on board with the plan too.

No more would the Grey Wardens be forgotten and neglected. The events in Antiva nearly twenty years ago had proven the dangers of _that_.

But Bhelen said nothing of this to Duncan or Brytta. They were truly two of the humblest people he'd ever known. He hoped that humans could go to the Stone too, because Duncan had the soul of a dwarf.

Only when Duncan had left to prepare for Endrin's birthday party did Bhelen lower his face to his hands and cry. It would be hard to lose two of the pillars of his life… but it was necessary. Better they die than become monsters…

…

Brytta, as promised, didn't tell the nug and noble-hunter story. Instead she told another tale so vile and creative that Nerav Helmi actually swooned and needed to be carried from the throne room of Orzammar by her two sons. Adal Helmi, a most unlikely friend of the Duster's, almost choked to death trying to eat and laugh at the same time. Even the boys were grinning as they removed their mother. Only twelve-year-old Natia, who was confused, and Alistair, who maintained some of the prudery of his Chantry upbringing, didn't laugh.

Rica simply sighed and shook her head. Brytta was incorrigible, even unto her dying day. She'd sworn she'd laugh until the Stone reclaimed her… and at least Endrin would have a happy memory.

When it came for the traditional toasts, her nephew got to his feet and looked at the crowd sombrely. He was tall for a dwarf at nearly five feet, a broad-shouldered young man with longish amber-gold hair and piercing malachite-green eyes, a close-cropped beard edging his handsome face. Though his talents lay more in diplomacy and trading, Brytta had damned well made sure he could fight as an effective rogue if needed… None of her family would ever be helpless.

"I would offer several toasts: firstly to my parents for making me the man I am today. I am grateful to them and I love them very dearly. Then, of course, I must salute each of my siblings for _not_ trying to kill me – though Natia came close when I ate the last cream cake at her last birthday party!" Several people chuckled as Natia stuck her tongue out at her brother. "I love them very much as well. But my main toast is not to them: it is to my Aunt Brytta and Uncle Duncan, Grey Wardens, heroes of the Blight, slayers of the archdemon Urthemiel… and the two to whom we _all_ owe so very, very much…"

Brytta bit her lip as Endrin looked at her and Duncan squarely. "I know that your Calling has come… and I know you didn't intend to say anything to me until after my birthday feast. I thank you for that kindness on top of all the others you two have shown me for years on end. But I couldn't let you go into the darkness without knowing how much you are loved, treasured and will be missed. Atrast nal tunsha, _mor og far av mitt hjerte_ – may you find your way home in the darkness, mother and father of my heart."

Endrin raised his golden goblet to them and deliberately drank as everyone else – even the enemies of the Aeducans – echoed his gesture. Brytta then swallowed back tears and stood up, Duncan joining her, as everyone – humans, elves, dwarves and even the Qunari's current ambassador - began to thump their tankards on the tables in salute to the Grey Wardens.

"Thanks," she said gruffly, tears making her vision blurry. "If we got to toast anyone, it's the folks who supported the Grey Wardens and made sure we got through the Blight okay. Some of them are gone away or can't be here, some of them are here. But we ain't heroes. It's the folks who helped us. So yeah… thanks, everyone."

"Agreed," Duncan said as she sat down heavily. "We have been blessed beyond measure by the love and support we have received from our friends and family. If we are heroes, it is because we have had people we needed to be such for. Thank you… and _ma'a salama_ – peace be with you."

He offered his formal cross-armed bow and sat down beside Brytta, tears glittering in his own eyes; beneath the table, their hands entwined in an unspoken agreement. They would leave rather sooner than they'd planned…

…

Bhelen Galvorn, Commander of the Mines, eldest son of Vartag Galvorn and Stone-son of the King himself, nearly shit himself when two figures ghosted up through the lava steam and revealed themselves to be the Warden-Commander and his wife. Both wore their typical armour… but carried little more than their weapons and light packs. Much to his shock, Brytta only wore her fabled iron daggers and Duncan carried ordinary grey iron longswords. Judging by the almost inhuman peace and serenity on their faces, it was time for them to enter the Deep Roads… Except they were doing it a few days too early.

But Her Majesty had already anticipated this and given Bhelen explicit orders and a flask of Valenta Red. "Queen Rica tells me this is the last of the Valenta Red vintage from '31," he said, offering the silver-chased glass flask. "She said it was appropriate you take it with you on the Deep Roads."

"Thank you," Duncan said, taking the flask with a grimace of pain. Bhelen supposed he'd be glad to die; those arthritis-swollen joints looked painful as hell. "And tell her thank you."

"I will. There's a patrol heading to Aeducan Thaig; want to go with them or head off on your own?" Either way would work with the Queen's plans.

"We will go on our own," Brytta said with a grin. "Hey, I remember teaching you how to kick a guy in the nuts. Glad to see you're doing well."

"Thank you, ma'am," Bhelen replied. "Stone catch you when you fall."

"Same for you," Brytta said as she bowed.

Then she and Duncan passed through the gates to the Deep Roads and were never seen living in Orzammar again.

…

_Centuries Later…_

There were only two waterfalls in the city of Orzammar: one was in the chambers once belonging (or so the Shapers of House Milldrate claimed) to the legendary Grey Warden Brytta and her husband Duncan, the only human to ever be counted amongst the Paragons… and the one which flowed over their statues in the Hall of Heroes.

The apprentice Shaper knelt before the waterfall and sipped some of the crystal-clear water from the pool below it, looking up at the monument in awe. Most of the statues of Paragons were in the heavy sandstone preferred by the Artisans of old, but someone had decided to craft the figures in mabari's eye for Duncan and malachite for Brytta, depicting them bare-chested and embracing beneath the waterfall. The Memories had it they were found entwined like that in Cadash Thaig by the golem Shale, who had promptly ordered the settlement's renaming to Brosca Thaig and then given to the Grey Wardens. Given that the golem was about six feet of pure, crystal-embedded granite, the newly reconvened Assembly had decided not to disagree with her… or King Bhelen's demand that they be made Paragons. Two people spoke against it – both Forenders – and were promptly lynched by their peers.

"Impressive, isn't it?" The apprentice Shaper flinched and jumped to her feet, turning to face the speaker… A dwarven woman with the malachite-green eyes and auburn hair of the Brosca bloodline. She was a dead ringer for the statue of Brytta, down to the forehead and cheek brands, except her snub nose was straight and no scars marred her cheek.

"Of course, Grey Warden," the apprentice Shaper said, noting that she wore the iron-studded leathers of a junior Warden and wore two plain iron daggers on her belt. "King Bhelen's Artisans were most skilled."

The Warden chuckled dryly. "For what he paid for them, they'd bloody well want to be."

The apprentice Shaper laughed softly. "Indeed." She brushed her own auburn tresses out of her eyes and wondered if this was a distant cousin; surely she'd know any Brosca Wardens of a similar age to hers!

"Yeah…" The Warden looked up at the statues. "So. A Brosca Shaper. What's your name?"

The apprentice smiled shyly. She was the first Shaper of her House, chosen as a child because of her eidetic memory and pedantic nature. "My name is Dunca."

Her cousin grinned. "I bet Duncan would love that!" She looked fondly at the tall statue of banded golden-brown stone which depicted the human warrior.

"I like to think so." Dunca shoved her hair back, envying her Warden cousin the ponytail and headband combination which somehow managed to keep her messy auburn curls out of her green eyes. "So… a Brosca Warden."

"Yeah. Not as special as a Shaper, but hey, who's being fussy?" Her cousin shrugged cheerfully. "Practically a family tradition by now if the numbers in the Fields of Grey are anything to go by."

"Fields of Grey?" Dunca asked, a bit confused. She'd heard and read of references to a legendary place by that name in the Memories… but they were fragmentary at best.

"Yeah… Where Wardens who are Wardens above all else go when they die," her cousin replied cheerfully. "It's kinda partway in the Fade, partway in the Stone, partway in the Memories."

"I… see," Dunca finally said. "How come they go there?" The apprentice Shaper was thrilled to be learning a secret of the Grey Wardens.

"The Final Blight will be the worst," her cousin answered, losing some of her cheerfulness. "So the Wardens await it under the command of those who slew the archdemons."

"I… wow!" Dunca grinned at her cousin. "Can I record this? It's amazing!"

"Of course," her cousin replied. "There's only one Blight to go, so it makes sense this information's remembered for when the time comes."

Dunca smiled broadly. "Thanks… I apologise for being so rude, but I'm going to need your name so I can attribute it properly… Unless you'll get in trouble for telling me or something…"

Her cousin chuckled and shook her head. "Oh, Arrek will growl and Garahel look down that long nose of his at me, but Jimmy, Mhairi, Duncan and Sten are on my side, so they'll just have to put up and shut up."

Dunca paused as she realised something. "Wait, you said there was only _one_ Blight left… Aren't there _two_ Old Gods left?"

Her cousin smirked. "Turns out we discovered why Sten died so early: the bloody Kossith bastard tracked down Lusacan and killed him quietly. I guess he was kinda pissed me and Duncan got Urthemiel."

Dunca's eyes widened. "Whu… What do you mean by that?"

The Warden smiled gently. "You're walking the Path of the Shaper, Dunca, following in the footsteps of your Ancestors to find lost Memories. The walker is always greeted by their House's Paragon on the beginning of the path."

Dunca tried not to gawk and wondered if the people passing the statues thought she was crazy or if they could see her Ancestor. "I… see. You're Brytta."

"Yeah…" Brytta rubbed her nose. "Before you wonder, everyone thinks you're snoozing. And you kinda are – because dwarves don't have a direct connection to the Fade, the only way they can dream is if the Ancestors visit them. And only the Shapers get the training to access these Memories and hear the Ancestors."

"I… am honoured."

Brytta's smile was sad. "Don't be, Dunca. You have a heavy burden on your shoulders. But remember: the Ancestors never give us a burden too heavy for the Stone to crack beneath our feet."

Dunca nodded. "I… Thank you. Will I see you again?"

The Paragon smiled sadly as she turned to walk away. "Hope you don't see me again, hon, because it means the world is ending. Atrast tunsha, salroka."

"Atrast tunsha, Ancestor…" Dunca mumbled, blinking as she realised she'd fallen asleep by the statues.

Then she picked up her rucksack, touched her malachite griffin pendant – an ancient heirloom of the House, said to have been worn by her namesake Duncan – and prepared to brave the Deep Roads for Memories to be rediscovered.

Behind her, a young dwarven woman shook her head with mingled pride and sadness before returning to her place amidst the other Grey Wardens.


End file.
